Lord Jim
shell of a man. But there--in those seas--the incident was rare enough
to resemble a special arrangement of a malevolent providence, which,
unless it had for its object the killing of a donkeyman and the bringing
of worse than death upon Jim, appeared an utterly aimless piece of
devilry. This view occurring to me took off my attention. For a time I
was aware of the magistrate’s voice as a sound merely; but in a moment
it shaped itself into distinct words . . . “in utter disregard of their
plain duty,” it said. The next sentence escaped me somehow, and
then . . . “abandoning in the moment of danger the lives and property
confided to their charge” . . . went on the voice evenly, and stopped. A
pair of eyes under the white forehead shot darkly a glance above the
edge of the paper. I looked for Jim hurriedly, as though I had expected
him to disappear. He was very still--but he was there. He sat pink and
fair and extremely attentive. “Therefore, . . .” began the voice
emphatically. He stared with parted lips, hanging upon the words of the
man behind the desk. These came out into the stillness wafted on the
wind made by the punkahs, and I, watching for their effect upon him,
caught only the fragments of official language. . . . “The Court . . .
Gustav So-and-so . . . master . . . native of Germany . . . James
So-and-so . . . mate . . . certificates cancelled.” A silence fell. The
magistrate had dropped the paper, and, leaning sideways on the arm of
his chair, began to talk with Brierly easily. People started to move
out; others were pushing in, and I also made for the door. Outside I
stood still, and when Jim passed me on his way to the gate, I caught at
his arm and detained him. The look he gave discomposed me, as though I
had been responsible for his state he looked at me as if I had been the
embodied evil of life. “It’s all over,” I stammered. “Yes,” he said
thickly. “And now let no man . . .” He jerked his arm out of my grasp. I
watched his back as he went away. It was a long street, and he remained
in sight for some time. He walked rather slow, and straddling his legs a
little, as if he had found it difficult to keep a straight line. Just
before I lost him I fancied he staggered a bit.
‘“Man overboard,” said a deep voice behind me. Turning round, I saw a
fellow I knew slightly, a West Australian; Chester was his name. He,
too, had been looking after Jim. He was a man with an immense girth of
chest, a rugged, clean-shaved face of mahogany colour, and two blunt
tufts of iron-grey, thick, wiry hairs on his upper lip. He had
been pearler, wrecker, trader, whaler too, I believe; in his own
words--anything and everything a man may be at sea, but a pirate. The
Pacific, north and south, was his proper hunting-ground; but he had
wandered so far afield looking for a cheap steamer to buy. Lately he
had discovered--so he said--a guano island somewhere, but its approaches
were dangerous, and the anchorage, such as it was, could not be
considered safe, to say the least of it. “As good as a gold-mine,” he
would exclaim. “Right bang in the middle of the Walpole Reefs, and if
it’s true enough that you can get no holding-ground anywhere in less
than forty fathom, then what of that? There are the hurricanes, too. But
it’s a first-rate thing. As good as a gold-mine--better! Yet there’s not
a fool of them that will see it. I can’t get a skipper or a shipowner
to go near the place. So I made up my mind to cart the blessed stuff
myself.” . . . This was what he required a steamer for, and I knew he
was just then negotiating enthusiastically with a Parsee firm for an
old, brig-rigged, sea-anachronism of ninety horse-power. We had met and
spoken together several times. He looked knowingly after Jim. “Takes
it to heart?” he asked scornfully. “Very much,” I said. “Then he’s no
good,” he opined. “What’s all the to-do about? A bit of ass’s skin. That
never yet made a man. You must see things exactly as they are--if you
don’t, you may just as well give in at once. You will never do anything
in this world. Look at me. I made it a practice never to take anything
to heart.” “Yes,” I said, “you see things as they are.” “I wish I could
see my partner coming along, that’s what I wish to see,” he said. “Know
my partner? Old Robinson. Yes; _the_ Robinson. Don’t _you_ know? The
notorious Robinson. The man who smuggled more opium and bagged more
seals in his time than any loose Johnny now alive. They say he used to
board the sealing-schooners up Alaska way when the fog was so thick that
the Lord God, He alone, could tell one man from another. Holy-Terror
Robinson. That’s the man. He is with me in that guano thing. The best
chance he ever came across in his life.” He put his lips to my ear.
“Cannibal?--well, they used to give him the name years and years ago.
You remember the story? A shipwreck on the west side of Stewart Island;
that’s right; seven of them got ashore, and it seems they did not get
on very well together. Some men are too cantankerous for anything--don’t
know how to make the best of a bad job--don’t see things as they are--as
they _are_, my boy! And then what’s the consequence? Obvious! Trouble,
trouble; as likely as not a knock on the head; and serve ‘em right too.
That sort is the most useful when it’s dead. The story goes that a boat
of Her Majesty’s ship Wolverine found him kneeling on the kelp, naked as
the day he was born, and chanting some psalm-tune or other; light snow
was falling at the time. He waited till the boat was an oar’s length
from the shore, and then up and away. They chased him for an hour up and
down the boulders, till a marihe flung a stone that took him behind
the ear providentially and knocked him senseless. Alone? Of course. But
that’s like that tale of sealing-schooners; the Lord God knows the right
and the wrong of that story. The cutter did not investigate much. They
wrapped him in a boat-cloak and took him off as quick as they could,
with a dark night coming on, the weather threatening, and the ship
firing recall guns every five minutes. Three weeks afterwards he was as
well as ever. He didn’t allow any fuss that was made on shore to upset
him; he just shut his lips tight, and let people screech. It was bad
enough to have lost his ship, and all he was worth besides, without
paying attention to the hard names they called him. That’s the man for
me.” He lifted his arm for a signal to some one down the street. “He’s
got a little money, so I had to let him into my thing. Had to! It
would have been sinful to throw away such a find, and I was cleaned out
myself. It cut me to the quick, but I could see the matter just as
it was, and if I _must_ share--thinks I--with any man, then give me
Robinson. I left him at breakfast in the hotel to come to court, because
I’ve an idea. . . . Ah! Good morning, Captain Robinson. . . . Friend of
mine, Captain Robinson.”
‘An emaciated patriarch in a suit of white drill, a solah topi with a
green-lined rim on a head trembling with age, joined us after crossing
the street in a trotting shuffle, and stood propped with both hands on
the handle of an umbrella. A white beard with amber streaks hung lumpily
down to his waist. He blinked his creased eyelids at me in a bewildered
way. “How do you do? how do you do?” he piped amiably, and tottered. “A
little deaf,” said Chester aside. “Did you drag him over six thousand
miles to get a cheap steamer?” I asked. “I would have taken him twice
round the world as soon as look at him,” said Chester with immense
energy. “The steamer will be the making of us, my lad. Is it my fault
that every skipper and shipowner in the whole of blessed Australasia
turns out a blamed fool? Once I talked for three hours to a man in
Auckland. ‘Send a ship,’ I said, ‘send a ship. I’ll give you half of the
first cargo for yourself, free gratis for nothing--just to make a good
start.’ Says he, ‘I wouldn’t do it if there was no other place on
earth to send a ship to.’ Perfect ass, of course. Rocks, currents, no
anchorage, sheer cliff to lay to, no insurance company would take the
risk, didn’t see how he could get loaded under three years. Ass! I
nearly went on my knees to him. ‘But look at the thing as it is,’ says
I. ‘Damn rocks and hurricanes. Look at it as it is. There’s guano there
Queensland sugar-planters would fight for--fight for on the quay, I
tell you.’ . . . What can you do with a fool? . . . ‘That’s one of your
little jokes, Chester,’ he says. . . . Joke! I could have wept. Ask
Captain Robinson here. . . . And there was another shipowning fellow--a
fat chap in a white waistcoat in Wellington, who seemed to think I was
up to some swindle or other. ‘I don’t know what sort of fool you’re
looking for,’ he says, ‘but I am busy just now. Good morning.’ I longed
to take him in my two hands and smash him through the window of his own
office. But I didn’t. I was as mild as a curate. ‘Think of it,’ says I.
‘_Do_ think it over. I’ll call to-morrow.’ He grunted something about
being ‘out all day.’ On the stairs I felt ready to beat my head against
the wall from vexation. Captain Robinson here can tell you. It was awful
to think of all that lovely stuff lying waste under the sun--stuff that
would send the sugar-cane shooting sky-high. The making of Queensland!
The making of Queensland! And in Brisbane, where I went to have a last
try, they gave me the name of a lunatic. Idiots! The only sensible man
I came across was the cabman who drove me about. A broken-down swell he
was, I fancy. Hey! Captain Robinson? You remember I told you about my
cabby in Brisbane--don’t you? The chap had a wonderful eye for things.
He saw it all in a jiffy. It was a real pleasure to talk with him. One
evening after a devil of a day amongst shipowners I felt so bad that,
says I, ‘I must get drunk. Come along; I must get drunk, or I’ll go
mad.’ ‘I am your man,’ he says; ‘go ahead.’ I don’t know what I would
have done without him. Hey! Captain Robinson.”
‘He poked the ribs of his partner. “He! he! he!” laughed the Ancient,
looked aimlessly down the street, then peered at me doubtfully with sad,
dim pupils. . . . “He! he! he!” . . . He leaned heavier on the umbrella,
and dropped his gaze on the ground. I needn’t tell you I had tried to
get away several times, but Chester had foiled every attempt by simply
catching hold of my coat. “One minute. I’ve a notion.” “What’s your
infernal notion?” I exploded at last. “If you think I am going in with
you . . .” “No, no, my boy. Too late, if you wanted ever so much. We’ve
got a steamer.” “You’ve got the ghost of a steamer,” I said. “Good
enough for a start--there’s no superior nonsense about us. Is there,
Captain Robinson?” “No! no! no!” croaked the old man without lifting
his eyes, and the senile tremble of his head became almost fierce with
determination. “I understand you know that young chap,” said Chester,
with a nod at the street from which Jim had disappeared long ago. “He’s
been having grub with you in the Malabar last night--so I was told.”
‘I said that was true, and after remarking that he too liked to live
well and in style, only that, for the present, he had to be saving of
every penny--“none too many for the business! Isn’t that so, Captain
Robinson?”--he squared his shoulders and stroked his dumpy moustache,
while the notorious Robinson, coughing at his side, clung more than ever
to the handle of the umbrella, and seemed ready to subside passively
into a heap of old bones. “You see, the old chap has all the money,”
whispered Chester confidentially. “I’ve been cleaned out trying to
engineer the dratted thing. But wait a bit, wait a bit. The good time is
coming.” . . . He seemed suddenly astonished at the signs of impatience
I gave. “Oh, crakee!” he cried; “I am telling you of the biggest thing